It’s so strange
To watch you turn up every morning
When you swear every night that you couldn’t go on for one more minute
How is it that
You want something so badly
That you just narrowly escape everyday
It is miraculous how you beg for her to touch you, even gently
As she forces herself upon countless others
It isn’t your time they would likely tell you
And I know you would sneer
Because what do they know about time
Or your time especially
But I don’t think you realize
The intensity of the blackness
That you toy with
Your restless body that you can’t keep still for even a moment
Completely motionless
And the reality of death
Is so much less of an escape than I think you had hoped for
The images of your wasted body
Will remain with the people you leave behind
And your legacy
Though it will be tragic
Will be very awkward and often silenced
And your very realness will be buried with you
A fraction of your history will consume your story
A generic message of hope
And remembrance will become you
All the poetic waves of your thought
Will be dwindled down to nothing
And whatever permanence you have left behind in your absence
Will be misunderstood and deformed
Into something else, far from your own